The Paradox of Change
by LordsofLazarus
Summary: Sanity is relative. Upon successfully his obtaining a job as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Tom Riddle settled. His followers, however, did not, sparking a chain of events that would draw him ever closer to a mysterious young orphan named Harry. AU
1. A grand entrance

Disclaimer:  
I do not own Harry Potter or profit from writing this in any way, shape, or form.  
Harry Potter is the property of J. K. Rowling.  
This is Fanfiction and, therefore, written only for my own amusement, and the enjoyment of whoever reads it.

* * *

The Paradox of Change

Chapter 1; _'A grand entrance'_

* * *

' _There's something about that tunnel that leads to downtown. It's glorious at night. Just glorious. You start on one side of the mountain, and it's dark, and the radio is loud._

 _As you enter the tunnel, the wind gets sucked away, and you squint from the lights overhead. When you adjust to the lights, you can see the other side in the distance just as the sound of the radio fades because the waves just can't reach._

 _Then, you're in the middle of the tunnel, and everything becomes a calm dream. As you see the opening get closer, you just can't get there fast enough. And finally, just when you think you'll never get there, you see the opening right in front of you._

 _And the radio comes back even louder than you remember it. And the wind is waiting. And you fly out of the tunnel onto the bridge. And there it is. The city. A million lights and buildings and everything seems as exciting as the first time you saw it. It really is a grand entrance.'_

* * *

The day was calm and clear, the sky billowing soft white clouds across the sky as high, pleasant voices echoed throughout the grounds of Hogwarts. It was nearing May in the year of 1946, and schooling was just about to end for the students.

Some would continue on with their schooling, others would move on, finding jobs within the wizarding community. One former student in particular stood just inside the school's bridge, suitcase in hand, watching with a faintly fond expression as students both large and small passed him by.

It had been two years since he had last set foot inside the school, working for Borgin & Burkes, among other prominent peoples, as soon as he had graduated, top of his class. Inhaling the musty scent of the bridge one final time, Tom Riddle continued on into the castle, intending to once more apply for the position he had previously been denied.

He passed through the old corridors, stopping occasionally as several portraits halted him and assailed him with questions; why was he here? What was he doing? How could they help the Headmaster's favourite former student?

With each question, he shook his head, appearing to be pleased to be remembered by paintings of the deceased who rarely recalled anyone. He explained to them his purpose and thanked them for their concern and interest in his welfare. He then waved his farewells and proceeded on up further into the castle.

The stairs still swerved in the opposite directions of how he wanted them to move, Peeves still teased the caretaker mercilessly, and the castle still had the same, homey feel that it always did. It was nothing like Wool's, with those cold wood beams that scarcely held up the ceiling and those frozen, deadly winters…

His face ranged in emotions as his thoughts flitted through his mind, finally settling on one of mild contentment as he realized, not for the first time, that Hogwarts _was_ home. A faint chuckle passed his lips as he came to the uppermost tower, standing in front of the large stone gargoyle. He hoped that the Baron had given him the correct password, "Good evening," he addressed, causing stoney eyes to move upwards to his face, "'Rogation'."

With a low rumble, he was permitted into Headmaster Dippet's office. As he stepped inside, it occurred to him how old the man truly was, though it was no surprise. Armando Dippet was around three hundred years old.

Standing by the Headmaster's side was Albus Dumbledore, his auburn hair just as long and whisping as it was two years prior.

Tom approached the desk with a smile on his face, taking his seat before the wide desk as the Headmaster spoke, "Well, Mr. Riddle, I must say you are persistent," the man stated, returning the smile with one of his own, his weathered voice still ringing clear, "I do remember you asking for this position before, and I had then told you to wait a few years for yourself to mature. I see that you took my advice to heart."

"Yes, Headmaster," he replied simply, not at all oblivious to the stares Dumbledore was giving him, "I explored my options as you requested, and I still find that the position of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts would please me best as a career."

Dippet nodded, his long grey hair brushing over the desk, "Indeed? And I presume you have some sort of resume or recommendations for me? You are not the only applicant, you understand."

"Of course, Headmaster," said Tom, pulling his thin, brown briefcase onto the desk and clicking it open, "You should find everything to be in order."

He watched with a guardedly nervous expression as the older wizard gingerly lifted page by page out of the case, adjusting the narrow glasses on his nose between intervals. Every few pages, the man would hum or his eyebrows would raise, but other than that, he gave no sign of being overly impressed.

Surely, thought Tom, he would be more than impressed by his advances in the short period he had been away. He had traveled to Albania, serving the Minister of Magic himself by conferencing with vampires. He'd examined ancient artifacts through Borgin & Burke's shop, helping Aurors determine which were potentially harmful to customers and locking those items away. He had been offered the position of Unmentionable, though he left that particular 'accomplishment' out of his resume.

The Minister himself had referred him for the position; how many other applicants could say the same? Moreover, he was well liked in the school, and was held in high regard by the Headmaster himself. He personally felt that he was _more_ than qualified for the position.

"Well, Mr. Riddle," Dippet said at last, "Your application is most impressive, more so than most others. I think I may have to retract my statement from two years ago in light of such accomplishments. My dear boy, you never fail to impress, do you?"

Pride, thick and sweet, swelled within his chest. It was at that moment that he felt a short flash of rage which quickly squelched his pride; Dumbledore had leaned in close to the Headmaster and whispered in his ear, just loud enough for Tom to hear him, "Of course, Headmaster, while Tom is certainly qualified for the position in regards to his career standing, is he not still much too young for the responsibility?"

Tom felt the anger dissipate, however, when Dippet merely laughed at the notion, "Oh, Albus," he chuckled, flapping several of the papers as he spoke, "That may have been true, when Tom had just graduated from our school, but he has come quite far, even you must admit it. I feel that young Mr. Riddle will make a fine addition to our school as the Defense Professor."

He watched with nearly hungry eyes as the Headmaster pulled a series of old documents out of the desk and handed him a pen…

It was one of his more Slytherin traits, he supposed, as he instructed the house elves on where to place his belongings. Even as a child, manipulation had been the most powerful and subtle tool he had at his disposal.

Now at home in his new quarters within the castle, Tom Riddle sighed as he leaned back into the plush green chair, tossing his feet onto the ottoman, eyes closed and a smile on his face. Placed carefully on the table beside him was a tattered old journal.

The date was June 3rd, 1946. Tom Marvolo Riddle had been signed in as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor.

* * *

He was already fourty-five when he began teaching _them_. Albus Dumbledore had taken over for Armando Dippet as Headmaster. Tom Riddle was Head of House for Slytherin, had been teaching at Hogwarts for twenty-five years, and never had he seen a more unlikely pair blossom. James Potter and Lily Evans. The two who had seemed to hate each other from the very first moment they spoke.

It came as a surprise to him then, of course, when almost directly after graduation, the two were engaged. He would not have known at all if not for Horace Slughorn drunkenly inviting him to the wedding during a Yuletide celebration.

Two years later, rumour spread of their child being born, a detail to which he paid no true attention. Another year would pass before both James and Lily died, reportedly of unknown causes. Their bodies had been found in the countryside far from Seville, surprising to most as it was a location quite a ways from their home. More so when their child, Harry, had been found left alone in the family's house.

For all that people knew, the boy had been sent to a local orphanage, and eventually all thought of the poor child seemed to vanish from the news. 'Potter? Potter who?' seemed almost common in the months that passed, until not even a whisper of the sole Potter heir could be found.

Either way, Tom mused, it really had nothing at all to do with him… At least it wouldn't, not for another ten years…

* * *

 _A/N: I have waited a very long time to get posting again, and I hope you all enjoy._  
 _I'll also be picking up my other stories very soon. I will also be working on editing existing chapters to flesh them out further and make them longer, this one included._  
 _There's much to do, lovelies!_


	2. Sleep for a thousand years

Disclaimer:  
I do not own Harry Potter or profit from writing this in any way, shape, or form.  
Harry Potter is the property of J. K. Rowling.  
This is Fanfiction and, therefore, written only for my own amusement, and the enjoyment of whoever reads it.

potential trigger warning for child abuse, please be advised

* * *

Chapter 2; 'Sleep for a thousand years'

' _I don't know if you've ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist. Or just not be aware that you do exist. Or something like that._

 _I think wanting that is very morbid, but I want it when I get like this. That's why I'm trying not to think. I just want it all to stop spinning.'_

* * *

The orphanage was a barren place, lacking the sounds usually carried by multiple children. Of course, it was rare for a magic child to be without parents, and so young Harry Potter grew up almost always alone. The caretakers thought he was very cute, with his dark hair and bright green eyes, but their love of him stopped there. Perhaps it was because he said odd things, commenting on details of their lives they'd rather not acknowledge. For example, Ms. Louise, a young matron of twenty-six, had had an affair with an older fellow down the road from the orphanage and had become pregnant. She never said a word, for fear of risking the one job she'd managed to hold down, but the couple grew apart after the man knew she was carrying his child. Passing by Harry one day, he quietly asked "why Mr. Aaron down the road didn't want her baby". She'd locked him in a closet without supper.

It became the norm for the matrons then, avoiding Harry. In turn, prospective parents avoided him as well. He was never introduced, never called to come down and meet the adults like the other children were.

He never truly understood exactly why that happened, why it wasn't obvious to everyone else that he was just as good as the other children, or why no one never adopted him. Perhaps they didn't want the responsibility of a child? Or maybe, Harry found himself wondering when the last family went away that evening, the sun casting their shadows across the courtyard, long and tall, he was exactly what everyone said he was.

A freak.

Harry himself had never believed it, despite the jabs and taunts of the few other children. He paid them no mind; he hated them, anyways. Some of those children had known their parents, could remember being held by them, were old enough when their parents died to actually feel something enough about them to make their childish eyes cry. In a way, he was almost jealous of them, but being as young as he was, jealousy turned to hatred rather quickly, especially with the attention the other children were given.

Harry was just as good a child as they were. He had no real memories of his parents, but he could do incredible things. Scary things. And so he had, when he was five years old and Jeremy Valcom, the meanest orphan in the sister's care had thrown him down a flight of stairs. Harry had broken his left arm, and the tears had fallen. He learned from that, however, that people found causing others pain to be fun.

And so Harry had swiftly returned the favour.

Jeremy had spent the whole of that night dangling outside of his bedroom window from the tall oak tree, pounding his ten-year-old fists on the glass, crying to be let back inside. When the caretakers had asked him how he did it, Jeremy merely sobbed harder. Harry was left with a hollow sort of happiness pooling in his stomach.

The sisters never knew, and the children never told, how Harry, at five years old, had strung a boy twice his age up by his heels on a tree…

* * *

It was a cold Wednesday in September, 1988, and Harry Potter was seated outside, taking a moment for himself on the swing set. The metal bars were rusty and the wooden seat splintered, but the rush of air across his face made him feel at piece for the moment. It was one dream of his that he had told no one, partly, of course, because he had no one to tell it to.

That dream that made Harry chase himself to sleep every night. The dream that one day, he would soar out of the orphanage, literally. It had started only recently, when he'd taken a book from the nearest library. An old myth from an old book that he nearly lost interest in. Especially the boy whose father loved him…

Icarus was the name of the boy from the book that Harry felt he almost envied- until his death, that is. Icarus had built himself a pair of wings, along with his father, to escape somewhere for some reason that Harry couldn't be bothered to remember. When little Icarus had used his wings and flown too close to the sun, the wax that had held the feathers together melted, and the feathers had sunk into the sea beneath him. Icarus had fallen after, drowning in the overpowering waves.

Harry would fly away too, yes, but he had no father to help him, nor did he need one. He had magic, something which Icarus did not. And that, Harry surmised, was the key to his escape.

A week later, Harry made a mistake.

* * *

An older couple came to the orphanage, older in relation to most of the couples that came by, of course, with hair greying at the temples, the woman whose face still held traces of youth except for the lines about her eyes. The man was older, most certainly, with thick rimmed glasses- even thicker than Harry's- and a cloudy sort of gaze that lingered too long in weird places. Most notable about them, however, was the way they were dressed. Their clothing spoke of money, and lots of it. Unbeknownst to them, of course, was that in such a place, dressing in finery such as they had was akin to offering a bleeding hand to a tank full of sharks.

Seeing them walk through the old gate, Madame Gertrude, who they were all instructed to call ma'am, and who was the head matron at Radiance Home for Children, hustled Harry away to the upper floor. It was an awful name for an orphanage, Harry had always thought so. There was nothing radiant in the least about rusty swings and wood-rotten doors that creaked too much. He sat down on his cot indignantly, just barely able to see out of the window where the couple was being greeted before being led inside.

Harry kicked his legs up on the sheets, not caring that he'd get in trouble later for getting dirt on them, "They'd want me," he told himself, thinking of the elderly couple, "Fancy folk like them, they'd want someone special."

He was very special, who wouldn't want him? In all likelihood, the Mr. and Mrs. were probably being ushered in to the living room to meet the other children. The boring children. The children who couldn't light a fire in the palm of their hand, who couldn't make the glass on the windows disappear on hot nights when the matrons couldn't afford to cool the building. No, the old couple would probably be pushed and prodded to adopt someone like _Jeremy._ Someone who bullied the younger kids, but wet himself when Harry dangled him out the bedroom window.

It had been a little over ten minutes before he could hear some of the older boys making their way up the stairs.

"Can you believe them?" one voice carried, "We're 'too old'? What they think they are, bloody spring chickens?"

"Bah!" came another, getting closer to the door, "They only want the little ones 'cause they're cute or whatever. I mean, you see the way the geezer was eyein' Ben? Like he'd eat 'im if he could. Nasty bugger."

The door swung open with a very familiar creak.

Brian Everett and John Gamble thudded in. Brian had a face like he'd had a run in with a brick wall, his nose was flat and stubbed, and his left eye crossed when he looked at one thing for too long. The other was tanned, and had a look to him that didn't do much for him, like he'd just tasted something foul. John was the more tolerable of the two, in Harry's opinion. He was nicer, in the way that he didn't bully anyone, but he made friends with the bullies and ignored everyone else. At least he knew who the winning side was, he guessed.

"Oi, Potter!" Brian shouted, far too loud for being in the same room, "Too bad Gerty won't let you down, that old codger an' his wife'd probably snatch you right up, eh?"

It was a shame the orphanage couldn't afford to have the boys separated better. Brian and John were thirteen already and, compared to Harry's age of eight, were incomparably stupider too, "I don't care, I'm leaving anyway," he answered smartly. Harry had never made it a small secret that he'd wanted to leave Radiance.

"Suuure you are," the older boy snarked, dropping himself down gracelessly onto the bed beside Harry's, "Not like anyone wants to adopt a freak. You're better off gone."

In his heart, Harry knew it was true. The part about being better off elsewhere, of course. But Harry had grown into a vindictive child, denied the affection that the other children received, pushed away and disparaged for simply being as he was, as he felt he was meant to be. Making bad things happen to bad people was called karma, he knew that, and there was nothing wrong with getting a little of his own.

As Brian prattled on, about how no one would ever adopt him, how he would be stuck with the matrons forever, Harry's temper slowly simmered.

"I mean, even your parents died to get away from you being such a creep, didn't they? I bet-"

The simmer became a boil. Unfortunately for young Brian Everett, it focus of Harry's growing anger was centered in a circle around the boy's bed.

* * *

Harry was locked in a closet for days after that, fear circulating once again at his actions that no one could truly explain. Somehow, Brian had been sitting on the bed beside Harry when it was suddenly and instantaneously surrounded by fire. The matrons came running, and the elderly couple with them. They entered the second floor boy's room to find young Mr. Everett screaming his lungs hoarse as the flames shrunk and crept closer to him, catching fire to the bed sheets. John Gamble, visibly shaken, cowered in the corner near the door. Between them, sat Harry Potter, right as rain, watching nonchalantly as the older boy in the bed next to him was starting to howl.

Quick thinking and quicker action saved the boy's life, thanks to a fire extinguisher placed down the hall. There were no signs of the fire ever being started through typical means, but the scorch marks on the floor said differently. Understandably, the couple left shortly thereafter.

The matrons were obviously furious, knowing Harry was the cause of the near-murder of another boy, and none more so than Madame Gertrude. She brought him to her office, stone-faced in fury, accused him of lighting a match underneath Brian's bed. Harry denied it. Back and forth they went, until the madam threatened to call the police. There was no possible way that she would, the reputation of the orphanage would already be in shambles as soon as the old couple talked, she wouldn't risk anything else being brought into public view.

Harry thought she was a liar, and he told her so.

If his parents had been alive to witness the events that followed, Mistress Gertrude would probably have suffered much more than simply being held aloft by her ankles. By nature, she was a very devout woman, believing that anything she said or thought was true and that others who disagreed were liars, heretics, and fools. And so, being called a liar herself by a mere child caused something within her to rage.

Her boney hand struck the eight year old boy across his face, sending him down to the floor with his cheek steaming red. Harry could scarcely believe what had just happened, lifting a hand up to cradle his injury as Gertrude screamed at him, cursing both himself and his dead parents in a manner that Harry was glad he wasn't paying attention to.

He said nothing afterwards as he was sent back to the closet. While the matrons had never shown him affection, they had never struck him. He sat in silent shock until his time in the closet was finished and he was allowed to return to his bed. The other children had moved their beds away from his, but he didn't even look at them as he dragged the thin sheets up over his face. His hand fumbled around under the mattress until he found his book, he never did return it. In the dark, he thumbed over the childish illustration of Icarus and his wings, and as much as Harry's young little heart had hated before, it had never felt so cold…

* * *

" _According to Brueghel, when Icarus fell, it was spring._

 _A farmer was ploughing, his field, the whole pageantry._

 _Of the year was, awake tingling, near._

 _The edge of the sea, concerned, with itself._

 _Sweating in the sun, that melted, the wings' wax._

 _Unsignificantly, off the coast, there was,_

 _A splash quite unnoticed, this was, Icarus drowning…"_

* * *

The book closed tightly with a slam and Harry set it down on the windowsill. The boys he shared a room with barely spared him a glance as he pulled the window open. He had no wings, and he had no ocean. But Harry was no Icarus…

He jumped.

* * *

 _A/N: Well, I had to completely redo this chapter from scratch because I wasn't satisfied with_  
 _how I originally wrote it (originally, I had Sirius and Remus involved as domestic dads, but my brain said,  
"nope, that'd be too easy and we need real angst in here", bonus, I ended up with at least doubling my word count  
for this chapter). Also, I'm not able to tag things, I will once I'm able to get my AO3 account back,_  
 _but there are some undertones of child abuse in this, and even as it progresses. I'd like to be sure you're all_  
 _aware of this as it is something very real and it affects quite a lot of people. I personally find it therapeutic to_  
 _write about, maybe I'm weird.  
Happier note, I'm currently watching the movies again, I can't begin to tell you how much I cry every time Hagrid shows up to  
get Harry. I'm such a baby, I swear.  
_

 _Much love from me to you!  
_


	3. How they feel tonight

Disclaimer:  
I do not own Harry Potter or profit from writing this in any way, shape, or form.  
Harry Potter is the property of J. K. Rowling.  
This is Fanfiction and, therefore, written only for my own amusement, and the enjoyment of whoever reads it.

* * *

Chapter 3; 'How they feel tonight'

' _Sometimes, I look outside, and I think that a lot of other people have seen this snow before._

 _Just like I think that a lot of other people have read those books before. And listened to those songs._

 _I wonder how they feel tonight.'_

* * *

Harry felt the rush of the wind, the sickening sense of vertigo as he fell closer and closer to the ground. It was nearly the end of September when he jumped out of the fourth floor window, sparce patches of ice still littered the earth below.

It was a thrilling, yet terrifying sensation, falling. Everything happens so slowly, and everything happens all at once. The wind whistles in your ears, your hair beats against your face, feeling like sharp needles, and your entire being feels like its sinking into nothing at both a furious and a sluggish pace.

He gasped, shut his eyes and bit his lip between his teeth when the ground became too close, feeling his erratic heartbeat. And then he was gone…

* * *

The ground did not feel as it should, warm instead of cold, soft instead of hard. His head ached and his chest throbbed, pain lancing through his body as he tried to wake up and move. He let out a gasp as he felt the pain, something in his ribs that creaked with the movement.

He whimpered as he lay himself back down onto what he could now identify as a rug. Harry had no idea how he had arrived in this place, or where it even was, but that simply made him more determined to leave. He braced both of his hands on the ground and pushed upwards, hissing out a sharp breath as the pain returned full force.

Even breathing had begun to hurt. He tried again, finding that going too fast hurt more than dragging the process out. On his fifth attempt, his arms gave out and he screamed when he fell flat on his chest. He hardly heard the door slam open and the angrily accented voice that followed.

"Merlin, child, enough," the voice rumbled, spouting off more words that Harry did not try to hear, "Do you want to die?"

Harry could not manage to turn himself around to see who the voice belonged to, and shortly heard heavy boots thudding across the floor to where he was. More muttering occurred and Harry was moved onto his back, now facing a grumpy looking man, who was scowling down at him.

"Who are you, where am I?"

The man was old, from the lines that creased his mouth that were certainly not from laughter, to the greying hair atop his head. He possessed and overall worn look, though not as much as Sirius had. The man was not someone of importance, Harry judged, by the shabby way he was dressed.

Harry heard him sigh and watched as the man sat down cross-legged beside him, "I should have known a boy foolish enough to jump out of a window was trouble," the man breathed, his almost grey eyes narrowing as if Harry was to blame for all the trouble in the world, "I was passing through the area when I saw you, jumping like that. Madness. Grabbed you right out the air, you little fool, whiplashed yourself, too; luckyt hing for you, that it would not have been proper for me to allow a wizard child to fall to his death like a Muggle."

Harry frowned in between the man's words, having some small difficulty understanding what was being said. What he gathered was that the man, a total stranger, and strange he was, had found him jumping from the orphanage and had taken him home. Harry wondered what he meant, the old man had caught him as he was falling? How?

Judging by the pain he was still feeling, he'd ask later.

"You still haven't told me your name. Or have you?" Harry asked, feeling tired. He questioned himself on how long he must have been unconscious.

"Burke," the man growled, "Caractacus Burke, owner in part of Borgin and Burke's, little shop down Knockturn Alley. And you, boy?"

Having never heard of the man or the place which he owned, but knowing well enough how notoriously cruel adults could be, he only gave his first name, making himself out to be a title-less orphan, "I'm Harry, just Harry. My parents died when I was born."

"I don't need your life story, lad," the man said, frowning, "But I do need to know what I'm going to do with you."

"Can't I stay here?" he asked, dreamily, even in his current drowsy state, he would never return to the orphanage. Not to that woman, "I can… I could work in your store, or something…?"

The look the man gave him was disturbed, to say the least, "I can't have a child working for me! You want the Ministry on my arse for child labour? No, I'll have to take you back to that orphanage once you're well enough to move."

With that, the man raised himself up off of the floor with a groan and a crack from his spine. His boots thumped along the floor and Harry stared after him as he went. Like it or not, Harry realized, that irritable old man was his only chance to be rid of the orphanage for good.

Harry rolled his head back and closed his eyes. He was going to find a way to convince the man to keep him here. One way, or another…

* * *

As it turned out, Harry had a lot to learn. Mr. Burke, and Harry himself, along with many others, were wizards. He had been skeptical at first, at least until the man had levitated Harry and the chair he sat in a good three feet off of the ground. It was also the reason Harry had been able to swing Jeremy Valcom upside down, and nearly set Brian's bed on fire; magic.

What Harry learned was that magic was very real, and very powerful, and that Mr. Burke was a dealer in the more obscure kinds of magical tools and devices. He ate the man's words like a starving man would a banquet. Everything made sense. Harry _was_ special. He was a wizard.

Mr. Burke's house was not very large, and it was not long before Harry had gotten better, due to the man feeding him healing potions- potions!- twice a day, and decided to explore. His chest still hurt a little when he bent over or backwards, but other than that, Harry felt himself to be fine.

The elder wizard was out of the house, something about his partner being harassed at work, and so Harry was left on his own. Truth be told, in the week he had been in the house, only five of those days were comprised of nothing more than laying down and recovering. The other two, Harry had been able to stand up and walk around.

He had discovered that the house was only one floor, and made up of six rooms; a bedroom, a living room, a bathroom, a tiny study, a kitchen, and a room that was always locked.

So far, Harry had rifled through the kitchen, and the study, leaving Mr. Burke's bedroom and bathroom alone. He didn't feel as though he would find much of interest there. The study had books, a veritably small mountain of them, all about magic, and a desk, and was absolutely entrancing. When he could manage to sneak away from the small blanketed space in the living room, that was where he went. That room made Harry wish that he had at least had the foresight to bring his own small menagerie of things along…

The kitchen was small, and not worth much mention. Aside from the strange little red-eyed creatures that hid themselves beneath the stove every time that Harry had entered the room.

It was the locked room that held Harry captivated. He had pulled at the thin, red lock multiple times, had hit it with a hammer from the kitchen, tried anything he could think of, yet it would not break. Harry supposed that it must have been charmed- something he had taken notice of in one of the many books in the study, and had made a note to learn more of- and returned to the living room where he lay down on the rug and threw the spare blankets he had been given over himself…

It was later that evening when Harry heard Mr. Burke return, but he soon realized by the noises that the man was not alone.

"Damn it, Lysander," he heard Mr. Burke snarl, "If you can't sell it, don't buy it! If the Ministry catches wind of you buying cursed, Dark objects, we'll lose our business!"

The other person snorted as he and Mr. Burke drew nearer to the living room, "Bugger off, Caractacus. The Ministry's far too lax lately, and with good reason. How long's it been since we seen any sign of any Dark Lord?" he chortled, "And what about Dark wizards? Why, just the other day, Lucius Malfoy bought that one book, the one bound in werewolf hide, you know, that one? Walked right out into the street with it, not a care in the world!"

"That was sheer luck, Lysander! And there isn't a witch or wizard alive that would question a Malfoy!"

And the door opened. The two argued for a minute more, before the unknown man finally noticed Harry, "Well, well, well, Caractacus," he smirked, looking over Harry in a way that made him frown, "What have we here? A thief? Or did you go off and get yourself a little rent boy? He looks awfully young…"

Mr. Burke struck the other's head with the flat of his palm, making a disgusted face, "He's a guest, a magical orphan I picked up a brought back to health, nothing more. Soon as he heals up, he'll be back where he belongs."

The other man rubbed at where he'd been struck, glaring at Mr. Burke as he did so, before shaking his head, "Now, Caractacus, let's not be hasty. We ain't as young as we used to be, might be useful to have an extra set of younger hands about. How old is he?"

"He's eight, I believe. And what does it matter, Borgin? We can't hire a child!"

Harry had the distinct feeling that he was being ignored.

"Bah, I worked when I was eight! Mined coal, with magic mind you, but I worked for my keep!" the man named Borgin sniffed, "'Sides, he's an orphan, they're a dime a dozen. Who'd miss 'im?"

Mr. Burke frowned, and Harry shifted on the rug. He didn't particularly like Mr. Burke, but he found him much more appealing than his companion.

It would also seem that convincing the man to keep him wouldn't be as difficult as he had thought...

* * *

Within the next week, Harry had returned to the orphanage, but he was not alone. Caractacus Burke strode through the gates with Harry's hand in his, a crisp suit on his person, and his twist of grey hair neatly arranged. In the pocket of his suitcoat, a piece of carefully folded paper shown white on the blackness of the clothing.

The two marched up the stairs, and Harry would never forget the look on Mistress Gertrude's face as Mr. Burke took a seat in her office, shoved the papers forward on her desk, and stated simply, "I will be adopting him."

Harry stood in the doorway, grinning at her flabbergasted expression as she went back and forth from staring wide-eyed at him, to reviewing the adoption papers. Suddenly, her face shuttered off and no more protests, silent or otherwise, we made. Who knew that such a surly old man had such influence? Then again, Harry thought, maybe it was magic.

When the day was out, and the two headed home, Borgin was reclining on the chair in the living room, swirling a glass of wine around in his hand. Mr. Burke groaned and took the opposite chair. Harry left the room and went into the study, half of which had already been converted into his own personal room, hidden by a sheet hung from the ceiling.

He laid down on his bed and closed his eyes. Harry Potter was no more, and he would never have to worry about stupid orphans, or worthless parents, or ugly, lying old women. As far as he was concerned, Harry Potter had never existed; he was Hadrian Burke now. It said so on his papers.

As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered how his parents would have felt if they knew how quickly he had dismissed their memories. A frown creased his small mouth as dreams took him away. In those dreams, he was Icarus still, flying through the empty skies alone. He looked up, and the sun seemed closer than he could ever remember seeing it.

Too close. And that was when his dreams of Icarus faded away. He had no more use for the flying boy; after all, Harry had gotten away from his prison, hadn't he?

* * *

 _A/N: Sorry this is later than usual, but I've had a lot going on. Most of it was good, though!_  
 _I turned 22 on the 23rd, which gave me the most incredible feeling of "Wow, I'm kind of old now."_  
 _It's silly, I know, it isn't that old after all. I confess I'm a little worried about the future, finding a new job is_  
 _stressful beyond what I'd thought it would be, however I am confident in my ability to succeed!_

 _Much love to you all!_


End file.
